Sleeping Bag & Rozwell Kid / Dreamboats

June 26, 2014

Written by: Jason Ribadeneyra

Sleeping Bag & Rozwell Kid

Dreamboats

Old Flame 2013

This one sort of got lost in the sauce. I let it ring out all last fall and winter, but never got my lazy hands around to typing about it and that fact has been plaguing me for months now. I’m embarrassed, shamed. I did you a great disservice by keeping it for myself like some kind of skinny song monger so won’t you allow me a bit of redemption?

Sleeping Bag, from Indiana and Rozwell Kid from West Virginia decided to release a 6-song EP (the perfect number). Communicating through email much like The Postal Service did to create Give Up, the two band’s lead singers traded ideas back and forth before getting together to put it all down on record, and we all know that when lead singers email each other awesome things follow. “I got like, 6 computers at my dispose so it was like, a good time,” says Roswell Kids’s Jordan Hudkins. After two months of constant emails and private Facebook messages the two bands converged to make history. “My step-dad was gone for like, almost a week so we piled our gear into his condo and recorded Dreamboats in 5 days! Here in West Virginia that’s like spending two years on something,” the front man told me via one of his 6 computers.

How ever it happened the outcome resulted in the best music that Rivers Cuomo never composed. All the Weezer comparisons are a no-motherfucking-brainer here but Dreamboats is better than anything on Pinkerton. For real. The first track, “Chinchilla” comes on all smooth like a date rapist and before you know it yr starting to feel a little light headed. Greasy guitars and Quaalude singing make up the bulk of the opener and set the stage for an unpretentious and fun 19 minutes of punk rock. If the first song grabs you, the next one, “Dogfood” holds you down. I mean, not many bands have the stones to feature cow bell in their first two offerings. “Total Doofus” follows suit and causes meek men to fight back urges to loosen their top buttons, clench a fist and scream “Sons a’ freakin’ bitch!” and not in that particular order either. It’s a lifestyle.

Music meant to be played at top volume, preferably in a van. Unfettered. Who says you need more than 3 chords to write a song?